From Wisconsin to the Black Hills: Alone on the Road

When you're flying solo, you can't hide from what's inside.

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“I’m not sure I want to go West,” I say, for the umpteenth time.

I said it in Rhode Island. I said in Michigan. Now I’m saying it again in Chicago.

I had been steadily creeping West, but only by small increments. I had also been procrastinating about making the leap into real solitude.

In total, I spent about 28 days with people who invited me to come. Some of them I knew for a long time. Some of them I knew online but met on the road. Each of them made me feel like I was at home. Each of them gave me not just hospitality, but solace. Comfort. Companionship.

After Chicago, there were no more such invitations until the West Coast. Another 2,000 miles. I’m worried about my little used car, purchased just a couple days before leaving. I haven’t driven it very far yet. Can it handle the miles I’m about to put on it? Does it have any hidden issues I can’t foresee? Will I wind up stranded in the middle of nowhere?

I’m also worried about whether I’m really as OK as I’ve been feeling. I’ve been staying busy, and I’ve had someone to talk to, in person, every day. Can I take being cooped up alone with my thoughts for days at a time?

A reader named

Sandy

commented on one of my posts this week:

The beginning of your journey was dark with so much pain and uncertainty. Your situation was heartbreaking and I began to pray for you. As you stayed with different friends and met with people you only knew from your writing, I could see that you began to experience their genuine caring for you as you try to discern your future. You seem to have touched so many lives through the years without realizing it. May this fortify you as you return to your family in Raleigh. It won’t be easy but hopefully this trip has renewed you and given you hope.

I replied:

The darkness is still there, but you’re right. I found a version of myself out here I’d lost along the way. I needed that guy. He used to believe in himself. And it turns out that even though he was nearly erased, he grew older and wiser along with me and was ready to bounce back when given the chance.

I’m not willing to lose him again.

All of that is true.

But the darkness, as it turns out, gets a lot darker when there’s no one to share it with you.

When there’s no one to distract you with their company and counsel from the fact that no matter how much you like the version of you you’ve rediscovered, it doesn’t mean he’s welcome back at home. When you have hours of open road to sit with the latest accusatory text, even as you’re trying to learn to regulate your nervous system to turn off its automated defense network. When you’re wondering if your kids think you’ve abandoned them while you’re off trying to heal so you can come back as a better man for them — or almost worse, if they don’t particularly care.

My drive through Wisconsin is completely uneventful. The fall colors are nice, but the day is grey and overcast for most of the drive.

I try to take a detour to see some sandy cliffs known as the Dells, but I just wind up driving through the woods somewhere until I’m back on the Highway. That’s what I get for listening to Grok about sightseeing. That’s OK, though. My heart isn’t in it anyway.

The miles pile up and fly by. One thing I’ll say about Escape Pod 1, she’s got a smooth ride and a perky EPA rating. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so little on gas for a trip.

Food, on the other hand, is outrageous everywhere. I stop at a Sam’s Club somewhere near Madison for some snacks so I can skip some meals, but a Culver’s visit sets me back almost $18. For just a burger, medium fries, and a medium fountain drink.

Does anyone else remember when burgers were like $6? Was it that long ago?

Wisconsin turns into Minnesota, which turns into South Dakota. I’m in my head all day, working through stuff I don’t really know how to figure out. I listen to some YouTube videos about navigating the end of a marriage and why things are playing out the way they are. I ask a bunch of therapy-style questions to ChatGPT. I commit myself to being non-confrontational, even (and especially) when it hurts the most.

I arrive in Sioux Falls just before 8PM, and my Airbnb’s last call for check-in is at 9. I’m staying in a room in the basement of a family that lives there, and I feel like I’m back in High School and have a curfew.

You do what you have to do to get a decent room and a shower for $50.

Sioux Falls looks like it’s poised for rapid expansion. Four lane highways through the middle of empty farmland are lit the entire distance with new LED streetlights, even though there’s nothing yet beyond them. But the place still smells like manure. I mean everywhere. I’m not talking about the fresh, grassy scent of cows or horses.

It’s pig shit. It’s the almost-but-not-quite aroma of human excrement.

On the East side of town, where I’m staying, it’s almost unbearable.

A Google search tells me that there’s a Smithfield Pork plant that’s the culprit. The place is apparently slaughtering hogs at a rate of 20,000 per day. They also have capacity to store another 8,000.

I love me some bacon and sausage, but damn. That’s not a slaughterhouse, that’s a genocide.

It’s also a lot of crap.

I can’t find anywhere decent to grab dinner and the clock is ticking. I’m also supposed to have a Facetime call with Eli, my 4-year-old. I decide to just bite the bullet and have yet another burger for dinner, because even at 2025 prices, it’s still faster and cheaper than just about anything else. I go to a place called Freddy’s Steakburgers, and grab a booth. Jamie Facetimes me on Eli’s behalf, and he immediately starts putting filters over his face. Dark-skinned baby with freckles. Shark head. Back and forth. There’s some kind of grinder or blender whirring in the background of the restaurant that not only makes it hard to hear, it floods my phone microphone with so much background noise that whatever Eli’s saying gets canceled out. Which, as it turns out, isn’t much. He just thinks it’s funny to put animated nonsense on his face.

“Eli, I called because I miss you buddy!” I say, in my most jovial tone. “I want to see your face.”

“Ok fine,’ he groans, relenting for a moment, before clicking another filter on.

He can’t hear me either. Too much noise. It’s an hour later where he is on the East Coast and he needs to go to bed, because he has to get up early for school. I let him go and end the call, with a promise to talk again soon. The grinder sound continues. I feel like I’m in an industrial shop, not a restaurant.

I finally get a chance to take a bite of my burger — couldn’t do it while face-timing, especially not with a lettuce wrap — and it’s so salty I think you could take it with you on an ocean voyage on an old sailing ship and it would still be good several weeks later. I have not the best blood pressure, so I know this is probably not great for me. But I’m not getting another meal until the morning, at least, so I dig in. The kid from the counter brings me a custard.

“We made an extra one we can’t sell. Do you want it? It just has Oreos on top.”

“Sure,” I say, getting fatter even as the words come out of my face. I scrape the Oreos off — no need to give myself the gluten reaction — and eat some of the ice cream.

Fat, salt, sugar, carbs…this is why Americans are obese, I think. But does it stop me? No. No it does not.

I need to get a gym membership.

When I get to the house where I’m staying, I grab my stuff and go inside. There’s chalk writing on the front sidewalk, making it clear this is a house with kids. I have to try the entry code twice, but I finally get in. When I open the door, I’m in someone’s kitchen and living room, and all the lights are off. I know from the instructions that my room is in the basement, and the lights are on down there, so I head down. My gigantic duffel is too much. I need a day bag. I wish I’d brought one. We have at least half a dozen unused backpacks at home. I don’t need to be carrying every item of clothing I own with me everywhere I go.

Downstairs, on the way to my room. I see a bar that absolutely blows my mind. I am mystified by people who collect alcohol instead of just drinking it, like I do. The bedroom is perfectly serviceable — clean, modern, cozy — and I fall asleep listening to an astronomer on YouTube talking about the weird interstellar object known as 3I/Atlas, and the fact that NASA is hiding the Mars orbiter photos it took of this 30 billion ton space rock that might just be an alien ship.

I have weird dreams all night, but none of them are about space.

In the morning, I shower and pack up. I take a couple photos of the bar on my way out, because I have nothing but admiration and respect for this man’s game. This is what it looks like:

As an Elijah Craig man myself, I’m impressed that he’s got at least a dozen bottles. I had one of my own in my bag, which I had a nip of before nerding myself to sleep the previous night.

On my way up the stairs, I meet the mistress of the house, who is doing dishes in the kitchen — which I have to walk through on my way out. We exchange pleasantries and I make instant friends with her beautiful brindle Pitbull before heading to my car.

From there, I’m on a mission to find breakfast. I locate a place that has 5-egg omelets and espresso downtown, and know immediately that I don’t need to look further. I want protein and coffee. As I drive off, I’m struck with an inclination to say some morning prayers. I haven’t done that in years, but I’m surprised to find that I have not forgotten some of the ones I used to say. I file this away for later. It’s weird, but I’ve long-since decided to be receptive to whatever promptings come my way on this trip.

En route to the breakfast place, I get a look at Sioux Falls proper. It’s a fairly dingy town, but there’s a good bit of upscale here too. I see a shop called Dakota Auto Parts with a digital marquee that asks, “Have you tried our Pumpkin Spice Brake Pads?” I find this far more entertaining than I should, and go out of my way to get a picture:

The city has a classic downtown, like so many places in America. Old brick buildings with new boutiques and restaurants lining streets filled with the pickup trucks of working folks.

The place I’m looking for is called Josiah’s, and as it turns out, it’s big and busy. I park in a nearby garage and head inside, and wait for my turn in line.

Unlike most sit-down restaurants this size, everything is ordered at the counter. Then then you get a number on a stick and find a seat, and wait for your food to be delivered. I go with a blackened salmon omelet, hashbrowns, a latte, and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. After forking over a 10th of a car payment, I grab my little number 12 on a stick, and find a spot at a long table just in front of a stone hearth with an actual fire.

It’s a vibe. I like this place.

I wind up with buyer’s remorse on the omelet. The salmon is overcooked and not particularly flavorful, and I realize I should have gotten the one with bacon and gouda. Oh well. What’s done is done, and I’m hungry, so I wolf it down. The latte is about five times hotter than any latte I’ve ever had in my coffee-drinking life, so I bring it with me in the car. I don’t even start attempting to consume it until I’m almost out of town.

And then it’s nothing but this landscape for roughly 7 hours:

The middle of South Dakota is about the emptiest, flattest piece of land you’ll ever see. The speed limit is 80mph, but it doesn’t feel quite fast enough to get you through it.

I make a stop at a rest area with a statue I immediately think of as “Sacagawea Voltron.” Thing is 50 feet tall, 12.5 tons, and looks like it could be deployed to fight a Kaiju. A couple hours later, I make an obligatory stop at Wall Drug, but it doesn’t hit the same without my kids there.

The last time I went, in 2021, we were there together as a family. We had just gotten done with a visit to Mount Rushmore.

It was, in retrospect, the beginning of the long, downward arc that led us to where we are now. I look back at these photos and am astounded how much my kids have grown in just four years. I look back at us and wonder what happened.

Somewhere between the statue and Wall, I am suddenly overcome with a massive wave of grief. The loss of everything I thought my life was about sneaks up and overtakes me.

This is one of the reasons I didn’t want to push West. I knew I would have to face the demons out here without the distraction and comfort of friends.

This is also why I made myself do it. Because the only way out is through.

I remember hearing a story about the SR-71 Blackbird, about how that plane, sitting on the tarmac, would leak fuel and fluids because when it was in flight, moving at speeds above Mach 3, the compression caused by the air resistance would seal it up tight. They had to leave the seams loose when it was stationary so there was room for that to happen.

I don’t know if the story is true, or if I’m even recalling the details correctly, but as I barrel down I-90 at 85mph, I know it’s true for me. The road, the momentum, the constant novelty, these are the things holding me together. Sit still too long and I begin to lose coherence.

I don’t bother fighting the tears for a few miles. I just let them come. I’ve been accused of not caring. Of checking out. Of being perfectly fine without everyone. None of that is true, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. What is felt is felt.

I’m just out here trying to make the most of a difficult situation. Trying to piece Humpty Dumpty together again. Trying to get through the worst of it and find my feet so I can stand upright in the winds that won’t stop blowing. Trying to come home a better father for my kids than I was when I left. Trying to become a man who can survive this and find a way to thrive, despite it all.

Just a few miles after Wall Drug, I enter The Badlands National Park. I’ve been there multiple times. It’s never been my favorite, but something draws me there all the same. The stillness. The surreal quiet. The alien landscape. The mystery. I came West to face solitude and find grace in nature, and this is the first step into that purpose.

My GPS keeps wanting me to turn around. I want to take the loop through the park West to Rapid City. I’m not sure I can. I don’t have a paper map and the entrance station is closed due to the Federal Government shutdown. That means no entrance fee, but also no help.

I make the mistake of ending my trip in my maps app so I can try to plot the route again, but there’s no signal out here. The top of my screen just says “SOS.” The navigation system won’t work without a connection, but I decide to keep driving anyway. Either I’ll figure it out or I won’t.

The sun is sinking low in the sky, casting long shadows across the craggy formations, made from a mixture of sedimentary rock, volcanic ash, and fossils. I get out and snap some photos and a video or two, but my heart’s not in it. My GPS finally starts working again and I plot a route to my destination through a place called “Bigfoot Pass.” Only there’s no pass to speak of, just a 7 mile long gravel road past a bunch of cows.

When I finally get back on the interstate, the sun is so low I can barely see where I’m going. I keep moving my visor. I try my Sunglasses. Nothing works. When the sun finally sets, it comes as a huge relief.

I use dictation to send a text to each of my kids. Ask how they’re doing. Tell them where I am. The interactions are perfunctory and brief. They don’t know what to say, and neither do I.

I finally get into Rapid City and look for a place to eat. I’m done with salty burgers. I find a Texas Roadhouse and head inside.

I forget that it’s a Friday night, so of course the place is super busy. There’s a 45 minute wait for a table. I opt to sit at the bar — not my favorite choice, but it’s available immediately, and I’ll take it over the delay. I eat my meal and drink my lite beer alone, in silence, a knot in my gut that isn’t hunger. The only person who speaks to me is the bartender, and then only to ask what I want. The guys who sit down right next to me never say a word. I am totally alone in a packed restaurant.

I am totally alone, period.

Since I have nobody to talk to, I text a few messages to ChatGPT. The simulacrum of human conversation isn’t all that, but it’s better than nothing.

It tells me I’m hurting because I’m healing. I tell it I’m hurting because I’ve lost everything that ever mattered to me.

It tells me to remind myself I’m safe right now. I ask how any of this is safe.

“When I said ‘you’re safe right now,’” it replies, “I didn’t mean ‘everything’s okay.’ I meant: in this exact physical moment — you’re alive, breathing, your body is not under attack. That’s the small space where healing begins when the rest of life feels annihilated.”

“I know physical safety matters,” I reply, “but it’s hard to appreciate it under the circumstances. It’s like, ‘oh great, that means I get to keep living through this.”

But then I realize something.

A month ago, I wouldn’t have been able to acknowledge that physical safety matters. A month ago, I would have sunk into hyperbolic catastrophizing, and probably said I’d rather be dead than endure.

Still feels like shit, but it does show that my nervous system has come down off the ledge.

Distance, time, love from friends, re-gaining my autonomy, re-integrating with my real self, and not spending every moment in fight or flight are doing their slow, steady work. It’s not pretty, but I actually am healing. And that’s not nothing.

I make my way up into the Black Hills in a darkness so deep it even swallows up my high beams. I’m staying in another basement room tonight, courtesy of Airbnb. I pull in to the driveway and am met by the door by Annie, a retired teacher, who welcomes me in and shows me around. I’m led to a basement with two bedrooms that both look like exactly what you’d expect a midwestern grandmother’s guestrooms to look like. Family photos and awards line the walls. Floral bedspreads and floral lampshades comprise the decor motif. There’s a rocking chair with a floral cushion. A painting of mallard ducks in flight amongst bulrushes graces one wall. The rooms have popcorn ceilings. All the wood and fixtures looks like they’ve been unchanged since the 80s.

But Annie is lovely, the house is cozy, I have privacy and a little desk to work at, and the price was cheap. This is not what I expected, but I’m grateful for everything that is going right, even the littlest things.

A line from a song on the radio pops into my mind, the raspy voice of the singer almost as clear as if I could hear it right now:

“I’m not okay, but it’s all gonna be alright.”

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